


The Repaid Favour Job

by imaginingstars



Category: Leverage
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Aftermath of Violence, Canon-Typical Violence, Falling In Love, I Promise That Despite The Tags This Is Quite Lighthearted, Idiots in Love, M/M, Minor Alec Hardison/Parker, Minor Violence, Non-Consensual Drug Use, Referenced Jobs But I Can't Actually Plot Crimes So They're Very Background
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-28
Updated: 2020-12-28
Packaged: 2021-03-11 03:15:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,239
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28388382
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/imaginingstars/pseuds/imaginingstars
Summary: Eliot pays Quinn his favour, but it turns out to mean more to him than just settling a debt. Stuck with the Leverage crew while he heals up, Quinn gets pulled into the crew far deeper than he'd originally planned.
Relationships: Mr. Quinn/Eliot Spencer (Leverage)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 59





	The Repaid Favour Job

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer that I have absolutely no idea about torture techniques, nor do I know the aftereffects of being drugged with amobarbital, despite my best attempts at research. Also, the Leverage crew may be the group I've had the most difficulty with when it comes to writing in character, so I hope I did them justice!

Eliot’s waiting for Parker to make her plan for their latest job when the text comes in. It’s from a number on a burner phone, and he takes a minute to realise who it’s from, made all the worse by the shitty rushed grammar.

**Calilgn in th efavr EMRGNCY**

There’s an address immediately after, and Eliot takes a moment to collect his thoughts and work out the context. When he puts it together, though, he’s relieved that the job is fairly local. It sounds like Quinn’s in some hot water over something. It takes Hardison only a moment to make Eliot more concerned; the phone’s signal disappeared immediately after, implying that it’s been switched off or worse. 

“I gotta go,” he says to his team, and both Parker and Hardison nod uncharacteristically seriously. 

“We can wait a few days,” Parker promises, and Eliot’s out the door within moments. 

It’s only an hour and a half’s drive to the address Quinn gave him, and once he gets there, he’s relieved by that. He parks well away, up the road, so as not to raise an alarm and approaches on foot. It’s not a particularly impressive site – nothing more than a tiny abandoned factory building. There are a few surveillance cameras, though, as well as two guys by the door who are immediately catalogued as ex-military. He sticks his comms in and murmurs quietly. 

“Hey, can you get a visual on what I’m heading into?” 

“Can I– It’s like you don’t even know me, man,” Hardison replies indignantly. 

“Damnit, Hardison! Less talking, more typing,” Eliot hisses back. 

It takes only a minute or two, but Eliot can tell when Hardison’s in. The problem is that the tell for this is Hardison’s sharp inhale of breath. The hacker swallows a little. 

“There’s only one angle in there, Eliot, but it looks like there’s at least four armed guys in there. It’s all one room, except for the little surveillance booth with the cameras in. There’s something broken on the floor, and I can’t see well enough, but I’d guess it’s Quinn’s phone.” 

“Can you see Quinn?” Eliot asks, filing the information away. 

“He’s on a chair and he’s not moving,” Parker chips in. She’s clearly watching the feed with Hardison. 

“You need us to come out there?” Hardison asks. He’s clearly reluctant to offer to walk into such a volatile situation, but he’s willing to offer if it’ll help Eliot. The hitter’ll never admit it, but he feels warm at his friend’s commitment. 

“Nah, man, I got it,” he says, and he’s pretty confident that he’s not lying. He approaches the building from the side, meaning that the door guards have a moment of needing to rearrange themselves so they don’t shoot each other. They take long enough doing it that Eliot’s got them both on the floor, unconscious, before either one can get off a shot. That’s particularly useful; it means that Eliot’ll continue to have stealth on his side for a few vital seconds once he enters the building. There’s a split second where he glances at the gun one of the unconscious men is holding, but he picks up the taser attached to his belt instead. Eliot’s not exactly as much of a fan of tasing people as Parker is, but it could come in useful. He takes a deep breath and throws himself into the room. 

He was right to think that being unheard until he entered the room would work in his favour. He’s got one of the armed guards on the ground with the taser before the others have even been able to properly respond. He feints one way, then moves in the other as the guns swing to pre-empt his location in order to maximise the effectiveness of the shot. He lands two well-timed punches to knock one of the men out, then pulls the limp form in front of him as a shield. Despite clearly being trained professionals, the move causes Eliot’s opponents to hesitate for a split second, which he uses to approach his third target. He throws his unconscious, unwilling bodyguard to the side and tugs the gun out of the man’s hand. He rams the metal into its owner’s face, feeling the nose crunch, then pulls further away and shoves back again, this time with his elbow. The man crumples to the floor. 

The last of the men assigned to guard Quinn is the youngest, and definitely the most inexperienced. He’s still good, but he’s slightly shaken by seeing the results of Eliot’s incursion. Eliot hits him once in the stomach before disarming him. Then, with one final motion, the man’s head meets the wall of the building with a somewhat sickening crack, and he slides down into seated unawareness. Glancing around one more time to double check that they’re all staying down, Eliot moves towards Quinn. Parker hadn’t been wrong – the other hitter isn’t moving, and he looks terrible. His left hand is cuffed to the chair. A cut on his head is bleeding sluggishly, and his right arm is clearly broken. It’ll probably heal right, but it’ll take a while; the saving grace is that Quinn is ambidextrous, so this shouldn’t be as much of an inconvenience as these goons thought it would be. He’s also littered with small knife wounds which have pierced through his shirt to his upper body, and he’s soaking wet. Eliot can see a hose and an empty bag of salt, and he’s pretty sure that means the guys threw salt water on him. It’s very basic as a method of causing pain, but he can see the attraction. It’d sting the open wounds initially, especially if rubbed in, but it’d also keep them clean and uninfected. If they’re trying to get information out of Quinn, killing him with an infected wound won’t help at all. Eliot cautiously lifts one of Quinn’s eyelids, examines the eye behind it, then lets it fall again. He’s pretty sure that this isn’t an entirely natural state of unconsciousness, and the empty needle on the floor implies the same. It’s probably amobarbital or something similar, a way of trying to get Quinn to talk. 

Eliot riffles through the pockets of the man he guesses was in charge and procures the keys to Quinn’s cuffs. After he unlocks them, he hoists the taller man up as best he can. Carrying him out of the building and all the way down to the car is a bit of a mess, but he manages. Eliot straps Quinn into the passenger seat, then slides into the driver’s side. 

“Parker? Hardison?” he says. 

“Oh, thank God, man. You can’t go quiet like that when we’re not there,” Hardison replies. 

“What do you need?” Parker asks. 

“Either of you have a problem if I bring him back with me? He won’t thank me for taking him to a hospital.” 

“Eliot, he should be thanking you on bended knee if you take him to a damn McDonalds. That was an intense situation.” 

“Hardison,” he growls in warning. 

“Alright! Yeah, fine. But if we gotta blow up the brewpub because of this guy, then I ain’t being held responsible for my actions.” 

“He’d break you like a twig before you could even try.” 

“I’m fine with it too,” Parker says, “But Hardison’s right. I like it here. Can we trust him?” 

Eliot glances at the unconscious man beside him. He looks surprisingly innocent when he’s out of it like this, almost cherubic. If Eliot didn’t know what he did for a living already, he’d never guess, not with Quinn looking like this. 

“You know what? I think we can.” 

* * *

Quinn feels kind of funny. It’s like he’s coming back from floating away, and he thinks with a wince of what he remembers. His employer had double crossed him, setting Quinn up as a fall guy while he fled the country with his ill-gotten gains. Quinn makes a mental note to be more careful with the jobs he takes; this is the third time in as many years that he’s ended up in an awkward situation with whoever it is that hired him. It is, however, the worst by far. He takes stock of the heavy feeling on his right arm – that’s right, they broke it, those bastards. It’s probably in a cast. He thinks of the needle they’d stuck into him with chagrin. It’s the cause of the previous floaty feeling, and he scowls a little as he blinks his eyes open. 

“You’re awake,” notes a familiar voice, and the handsome face of Eliot Spencer swims into view. He sets a tray down beside the bed Quinn’s lying in, and the smell of omelette permeates the room. 

“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?” Quinn says wryly, then adds, “Thanks for the, ah, _assist_.” 

“Assist? Eliot saved your ass!” Hardison’s voice floats over from across the room and Quinn rolls his eyes as best he can when everything’s still fuzzy. 

“You’re making me regret it,” he says, “Don’t you ever shut up?” It’s not particularly malicious, though, and it’s still a little slurred, so Hardison seems to deign to let it go. 

“How the hell’d you even get into that situation?” Eliot asks. 

“It seems I am doomed to have regrettable employers for eternity,” Quinn sighs. 

“At least they didn’t do anything to your face! You can still be pretty,” Parker chirps. Quinn blinks, confused. Not only is that a slightly strange statement, but in his still vaguely addled mind, he could swear she’s upside down. A moment later, he realises that she actually _is_ upside down, dangling from the ceiling by a rope. She does a graceful dismount to land on her feet and smiles brightly at him. 

“Hello, Parker,” he says, anything else to say escaping him. 

“Parker, you can’t just go around calling people pretty,” Eliot growls, fondness faintly detectable underneath. 

“Why not? Don’t you think he’s pretty?” 

Eliot’s cheeks change shade just a fraction, ever so slightly pinker than before. _Interesting_. 

“Hey, mama, you want to just run through the con?” Hardison prompts, apparently as uncertain about how to respond to that as Eliot, or indeed Quinn himself. 

“Are you expecting me to leave the room?” Quinn says a little snarkily, bewildered as to why they’re willing to run through it with him right there. 

“Well,” Parker responds, surprisingly reasonably, “It’s not like you could stop us if you wanted to, is it?” 

Quinn considers the cast on his arm, then Eliot’s semi-permanent scowl. On a normal day, maybe, if Eliot’s off his game and Quinn’s on top of his. At the moment, though? “Fair point.” 

As Parker runs through the con, targeting some multi-billionaire with unsafe factory conditions who works his employees to death, Quinn relaxes into lethargy. He does, however, notice Eliot cutting up the omelette as he listens. It’s still something of a surprise when Eliot passes the plate and a fork to Quinn, the food cut into surprisingly uniform chunks. Quinn raises his eyebrows a little, but he skewers a piece of omelette on his fork and starts eating at the somewhat expectant look from Eliot. He lets out a surprised little moan of delight at the taste. It’s a really fucking good omelette. A glance at Eliot reveals that he seems pleased at the positive reaction, his ears going slightly pink. _It’s a good look_ , Quinn thinks absently. 

Once Parker wraps up the briefing, the three members of the Leverage team stand. Quinn raises an eyebrow from the bed which he’s come to realise is an old hospital bed positioned in the back room of what seems to be some form of restaurant. 

“And what would you like me to do?” he asks. He uses a pleasant tone, but Eliot clearly recognises the sound of a man who’s going to be stir-crazy within hours without something to do. 

“Amy’ll bring you anything you need, and you can get, like, every channel on the screen,” Hardison says. Unlike his friend, he evidently hasn’t picked up the strain in Quinn’s voice. 

“Parker, can we loop him in?” Eliot suggests, unexpectedly. Everyone else in the room stares at him like he’s grown a second head. 

“What were you thinking?” Parker asks eventually, after a pause. 

“Button cam, give him a comm,” Eliot answers promptly, “This is a damn big company. Having another pair of eyes can’t hurt none.” 

“Hmm. Okay,” Parker says. And so that’s settled. 

* * *

Eliot knows he can’t afford to be distracted during the job. That means that he has to parse through his inner confusion before they start the con. He’d been absolutely fine leaving the idle thought he’d had about Quinn during the drive home just that – an idle thought. But then, once the other hitter had woken up, Parker had called him pretty offhandedly. The worst part is that he knows she’s right, in a strange kind of way. Quinn’s not rugged in the same way as Eliot; there’s less of a weathered look to him. But he’s handsome in his own way, and all of these thoughts had come flooding in once Parker had made her remark. 

It’s not a sexuality crisis, at least – Eliot had one of those a decade ago, even before he enlisted. He knows he‘s bisexual in the same way he knows how where best to hit a man in order to break a rib; that is to say, through both thinking about it and experience. He’s comfortable with it. 

No, this is a _Quinn_ crisis. 

Once Parker had made that comment, the floodgates had opened. Suddenly, Eliot has been thinking about every interaction he’s ever had with Quinn, their easy banter even when trying to beat each other to a bloody pulp. Yes, Quinn’s good-looking, but there’s more to it than that. Quinn gets him in a way that even Parker and Hardison have never quite managed; he’s been to those dark places and made the same choices that Eliot used to. Eliot needs Parker and Hardison as his partners, his friends, and he’s not sure he can be himself without them. But Quinn... Quinn is somebody he could _want_ , not _need_. 

The whole thing had become even worse once Quinn started eating. That moan had been nigh-on indecent, and Eliot’s sure he’d only gotten away with his feelings on _that_ because he’d been simultaneously delighted at the appreciation of his cooking. It had provided enough of a cover that Eliot hadn’t ended up just staring at Quinn. So, yeah, okay. He’s got _feelings_ for Quinn. He knows, and now he can compartmentalise. 

“Are you okay?” Parker asks, quietly. She might still struggle with people, sometimes, but she’s getting better, and she’s noticed that Eliot’s been lost in thought for the whole drive. 

“Yeah,” he says, “All good.” 

* * *

“Hardison,” Quinn’s voice says smoothly over the comms a week later, “You’ve got a guard there that definitely isn’t a guard.” 

“What?” Hardison mutters discreetly. 

Quinn’d shaken off all of the drugs within a day, and he’d be out of the city by now if Eliot hadn’t growled at him over the comms to stay in the pub until the con’s over and they can check him over one last time when they’re not distracted. As much as he’d bristled at being told what to do like that, he couldn’t deny that he’d been slightly mollified by Eliot Spencer being concerned for his well-being. As it is, he’s lounging on the couch in the back of the brewpub and is looking intently at the three video feeds on the screen in front of him, transmitted from each of the members of the Leverage crew. Just as he’d said, Hardison’s feed is showing a man dressed as a security guard in very much the wrong place for any guard shift the research has shown. That’s entirely disregarding the disturbingly non-regulation sidearm he’s carrying, complete with a shape that looks like a suppressor. 

“You’ve been running the con too well, that’s a hitman,” Quinn tells him, “Eliot, you should probably get up there.” 

“Damnit, Hardison,” Eliot says, “I can’t believe you’ve done this again.” 

“Again?” Quinn asks. 

“He always goes too far.” 

“Once the hitman’s dealt with, everything else from the con should still work,” Parker says, mastermind voice in full effect, “Good call, Quinn.” 

Quinn tells himself that the warmth he feels at the appreciation for his teamwork is solely because he noticed something they didn’t. It’s not even remotely convincing. 

* * *

“Well,” Quinn says at the celebratory drinks after the con goes well, “Thank you for the hospitality. But I think I should probably be going.” 

“You should stay until that arm’s healed,” Eliot says, gruffly as ever, “Ain’t gonna knock ‘em down so easy with that thing on your arm.” 

“If you’d like, we can even work you into the next con,” Parker suggests, far too excitedly, “Everyone’ll love it. It’s a fun sob story, a broken arm.” 

“I’m not sure–” 

“C’mon, man,” Hardison interrupts, talking over him, “You could’ve left a week ago once the drugs were out of your system. Might as well ride it out.” 

“Are you sure I still can’t hit him?” Quinn asks Eliot, who looks tempted himself. 

“Unfortunately not,” he says, sounding regretful. 

“You’d help us make up numbers for a better con,” Parker pleads in a surprisingly wheedling tone. 

She seems to have taken to Quinn now that she’s actually taking time to get to know him. She’s been watching him from the rafters and asking him odd questions. The first time he’d noticed her watching, Eliot had been asking him to chop some onions for a tomato sauce. Quinn has felt eyes on him and tightened his grip on the knife, but Eliot had laid a hand gently on his arm. Even before Eliot told him it was Parker’s way of getting to know him, Quinn had started to relax as a result of the man’s touch on his arm. 

“Fine,” Quinn acquiesces, sounding more reluctant than he is – and isn’t that a kick in the head, the realisation that he’s actually quite pleased to be staying, and that the Leverage team wants him here? “But I reserve the right to hit people.” 

“Only with your left hand,” Eliot tells him, “Or you’ll have that thing on a lot longer.” 

It’s an agreement. Quinn’s a lot happier about it than he ever thought he would be. 

* * *

The time until the next job is... Well, it's weird. Quinn seems to keep finding himself gravitating towards the kitchen, and he doesn’t completely know why until he realises that it’s where Eliot spends most of his downtime. Even after he’s worked that out, he’s still a little confused. Sure, he and Eliot have things in common. They like similar movies (“I’m your Huckleberry,” he remembers saying, and what a choice that had been) and they do mostly the same job. They have senses of humour which aren’t identical, but rather complimentary, and Eliot can always get a laugh out of Quinn. They work well together, and they have a good rapport. Quinn just happens to enjoy the way Eliot’s eyes light up when he’s talking about food, passion filling him head to toe. Eliot’s not exactly hard on the eyes, too, what with that face and those arms and... _Oh_. Well, that would do it. 

Of course, there’s no way Quinn’s in love with Eliot Spencer. Except that he absolutely is. He wishes he could say that he just wants Eliot to bang him like a screen door in a hurricane. As it stands, he wouldn’t be opposed to that. He just also wants to maybe hold Eliot’s hand, and kiss him senseless, and fight some people back to back with him. So his sense of romance is a little skewed – sue him. The point still stands that he’s a little embarrassingly gone for his fellow hitter. 

Quinn’s a professional, though. He’s agreed to stay for the next job, and he won’t let a little thing like being in love with Eliot stop him. 

When a new client approaches, Quinn somehow ends up sat in on the initial conversation. The woman’s in tears, and Quinn’s surprised to feel quite such a strong tug of sympathy for her. He’s never been as much of a heartless bastard as his profession would seem to imply, but he’s also always been good at distancing himself from it. Now he seems to have turned into a bleeding-heart case, and he’s pretty sure it’s Eliot’s fault. Infuriating bastard. 

“He was my boy,” Moira McCarthy sobs, “And that company killed him.” 

“I know,” Parker says, soothingly, “What do you need from us?” 

“I want everyone else to know,” Moira cries, “I want everyone else to know what they did to him, and that they can’t ever trust anything those bastards do.” 

“I think,” Eliot says, with a gentle smile that, infuriatingly, makes Quinn melt a little, “We can do that.” 

* * *

“Remember, Quinn,” Hardison’s voice starts in Quinn’s ear. 

“Yes, Hardison, I have actually done this before,” Quinn replies, a little more testily than he’d planned, “I’m perfectly capable of both lying and acting charming.” 

Immediately afterwards, he plasters on his most boyish grin as the secretary Parker had spoken to on the phone in the guise of his assistant approaches. She blushes a little the second she sees him. _Perfect_. Parker’s good at this whole masterminding thing, clearly – she’d looked at the woman, then at the Facebook page Hardison had pulled up, glanced between the three men in the room with her, narrowed her eyes at Quinn, and said, “You.” 

“Mr Callahan? Hi, I’m Tina. Mr Wesley is ready for you.” 

There’s no reason she needs to introduce herself. She’s just supposed to invite him in for a meeting. They’ve got their way in. He actually feels slightly shitty for using her this way, but it’s just a bit of flirting to act as a distraction; he knows it’s not the worst thing the Leverage team has done, and it’s definitely not the worst thing he’s done. The pang of conscience is just an unfortunate side effect of his current company. He also has a feeling it’s a consequence that might end up sticking, which he doesn’t like at all. He keeps his face relaxed into that smile, though, and Tina brings him into Wesley’s office. Wesley’s the head of the private security firm that killed Moira McCarthy’s boy, and Quinn can’t help but feel a little grateful that this, of all jobs, is the one where they have two hitters. 

“Mr Callahan,” Wesley says, as the door closes behind his secretary. 

“Mr Wesley,” Quinn says, smoothly, “I’d truly like to shake your hand, but, well...” He trails off deliberately, lifting his cast with a self-deprecating smile. 

“What happened there?” Wesley asks, interest vaguely piqued. 

“Well, it’s rather the reason I’m here,” Quinn tells him, “Since my security clearly isn’t up to scratch. It took them a good three minutes to notice anyone had come in, and I was working late. By the time they were out, they’d already broken my arm.” 

“Well,” Wesley says with a shark-like smile, “I think we can help with that. Though I must say, I don’t see why this necessitates a meeting with a CEO.” 

“Mr Wesley,” Quinn starts, leaning forward a little, “I thought you’d never ask.” 

* * *

Wesley’s taken first the bait, and then the hook. From a minute on the job, to an hour, then a day, and then two and three and four, he continues to eat out of Quinn’s hand. Parker, Hardison and Eliot are running the behind-the-scenes as smoothly as they always do, and Quinn almost, almost slips into utter relaxation in the con. He knows Parker’s got the papers they need, and he’s about to make an excuse and slide out, ready to see Wesley’s face when he realises he’s been duped. That plan accelerates in timeframe, however, as he hears the familiar sound of violence down the comms. He hopes his voice remains steady as he cries off, and he heads to Eliot’s last known location as he hears the other hitter grunting in pain. It’s not feigned pain or minor injury, either – that’s the sound of somebody hurting. Quinn’s heard noises which are considerably more pained, but he’s still concerned. 

“Eliot?” Parker’s repeating into the comms, sounding increasingly frantic. There’s a gunshot, static, and then silence. 

“I’m headed his way,” Quinn says, urgency in his voice as he heads around the corner from Wesley’s office and speeds up his pace. 

“Okay,” Parker replies. The mastermind, the true genius that she can be, has been stripped away. All that’s left is somebody terrified for their friend. 

When Quinn arrives on scene, Eliot’s somehow still standing. Quinn can tell at a glance that the only reason he got into difficulty is the sheer number; there’re at least fifteen guys there, all armed with batons, and one of them has a gun. Eight are already down, which acts to further indicate how good Eliot is at what he does. His leg is oozing blood from a gunshot wound, and he’s spitting blood onto the ground, where it lands beside his shattered earbud. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, noticing Quinn approaching from behind the utter bastards who’ve done this to him, “You want to know a secret?” 

The security guards exchange glances. 

“You can’t talk your way out of this,” one insists. 

“Nah,” Eliot replies, grinning a bloodstained grin, “But you’re in even more serious trouble now. ‘Cause me? I try not to kill people anymore. Ain’t my style. But him? He’s less worried about it.” 

The first of the men whirls around straight into Quinn’s fist. There’s a flurry of punches, a few kicks, and one memorable whack with his cast that leaves Quinn wincing internally, and eventually he and Eliot are standing over the group. There’s only one still conscious, and it’s the one Quinn’s just taken a gun from – the gun that now rests, a familiar weight, in his left hand. He levels it at the man at his feet. His face is a cool mask. 

“Don’t,” Eliot tells him, quietly, from just behind him. It’s strangely ironic, the feared Eliot Spencer acting as the angel on Quinn’s shoulder. 

“He shot you,” Quinn says. 

“He ain’t the first, and I doubt he’s the last,” Eliot replies, “Don’t.” 

Quinn hesitates. Then he smashes the gun down on the man, leaving him unconscious. 

“Let’s go, then.” 

* * *

“You probably shouldn’t have come after me,” Eliot says to Quinn that night, after Wesley’s been paraded in front of the media and brought to the dirt where he belongs, “If you’d been seen...” 

“I wasn’t,” Quinn answers, feigning a certain degree of confidence but still not looking Eliot in the eye, “And you were more important.” 

“No,” Eliot replies predictably, “I wasn’t.” 

“You were to me,” Quinn tells him, as if he’s spelling it out for a child. Eliot looks ever so slightly like he’s been slapped with a wet fish – the surprise and confusion is written all over his face. 

“Why?” he asks eventually. 

“Come on, Eliot,” Quinn drawls, “As often as you play it for cons, you’re not stupid.” 

He’s still afraid to make this play. He’s done this entirely by accident, but Quinn’s set himself on a path of admitting everything to the other man. Quinn’s about to talk feelings. _Oh, Christ_. And to make matter worse, despite an extended pause, Eliot seems to have worked it out. 

“You...?” He sounds even more bewildered than before. “Me...?” 

“Not sure what you’re asking there, pal,” Quinn says. He’s more audibly nervous now, but he’ll stick to his guns – he always has, be they metaphorical or not. 

“Now who’s playing stupid?” Eliot fires back. 

“Fair enough,” Quinn acknowledges. He takes a breath, then reminds himself that he’s only agreed to stay long enough for his arm to heal. If absolutely necessary, if this goes humiliatingly badly, he only has to keep his word to stay for another two or three weeks. “I might – just might, mind you – have... Feelings. For you.” 

Eliot’s eyes widen, as if he hadn’t expected Quinn to just come out with it like that. He also goes that pleasing light shade of pink again. Quinn remembers seeing it the last time, when he’d enjoyed that omelette so much he’d – _oh_. Maybe his feelings aren’t as one-sided as he’d feared. Eliot clears his throat somewhat awkwardly. 

“I, uh... I... Thanks for telling me. I, uh... I might have a bit of something for you, too.” Eliot’s stuttering more that Quinn would ever have believed possible from his fellow hitter. 

“In that case,” Quinn says, voice low and honeyed, confidence suddenly rushing through him and prompting drastic action, “Do you mind if I...?” 

He trails off, but Eliot clearly knows what he’s about to ask. They think similarly on the things that matter, at least. And so Eliot makes the move. 

Their lips meet in a surprisingly gentle manner for two people known for their violence, but it’s still passionate. Quinn reaches up to cradle the back of Eliot’s neck just as Eliot cups Quinn’s face with his hands. The kiss deepens and Quinn’s totally lost in it, the sensations of Eliot all around him, and who would have ever thought when they first met and broke each other’s ribs that they’d end up here? They each pull away at the same moment, breathless. Almost magnetically, each of them seems to be drawn back towards the other. Their foreheads meet, then their noses, and for a moment they just _are_. After a pause, Eliot straightens up again, and he seems about to say something when another voice breaks their silence. 

“I knew you thought he was pretty!” 

Parker descends from the ceiling by a rope, and any other time Quinn would find it as charming as he’s come to find all of Parker’s quirks. Now, though, he feels like a balloon that’s been popped, her presence permeating the previously perfect atmosphere. 

“Damnit, Parker!” Eliot snarls. 

“What? You usually only say that to Hardison,” she says, and as if summoned by his name, her own romantic partner appears. Hardison glances between the two mildly irate hitters and starts to guide Parker out by the shoulders. 

“C’mon, babe, you can’t be doing that!” he mutters quietly on the way out. 

Once the other two have left the room, Quinn and Eliot are left staring at each other. The corner of Eliot’s mouth twitches. Then Quinn’s done. The two of them burst into laughter at the same time, the sounds resonating through the room. 

“Only Parker,” Eliot says fondly. 

“Only Parker indeed,” Quinn agrees. “Hey, would you maybe want to get dinner? I happen to know an amazing brewpub, and just between us, the head chef is something of a stunner.” 

“No comments on the quality of the food?” Eliot retorts, eyes twinkling. 

“Oh, I wouldn’t know. I’m not exactly a connoisseur.” 

“I’ll recommend a good meal, then,” Eliot promises. 

Quinn’s never been so excited for food. 

* * *

“I told you!” Parker hisses to Hardison. 

“Yeah, alright, Eliot does look happy,” Hardison agrees begrudgingly, “What made you think Quinn, of all people, was the guy he should get with?” 

“Like I said,” Parker shrugs, “He’s pretty.”


End file.
